


Eyes Unclouded

by secondmeteor



Category: Naruto
Genre: (With maybe some liberal interpretations), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied Child Abuse, Sibling angst because there's not enough of that in Naruto already, Warring States Period (Naruto)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondmeteor/pseuds/secondmeteor
Summary: To protect his brother, Hashirama makes the sacrifices expected of him. Madara is forced to make sacrifices he never anticipated. The story of Madara's Mangekyou Sharingan.





	1. Walking on Rotten Ice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the amazing works of theadventuresof, particularly Five Winters. Thank you so much for letting me play around with your headcanon!
> 
> I'm planning to post a new chapter every couple of days to give me time for editing, but the entire work should be posted within the week.

It was _much too cold_ to be up and out of bed at sunrise, as far as Madara was concerned.

Trudging through the forest, he concentrated on blowing the smallest fireballs he could manage into his gloved hands, while Izuna bounced along beside him looking not at all bothered by the cold or the early hour. His little brother had woken him up not half an hour before by launching himself onto Madara’s sleeping body. Once Madara had shaken off sleep enough to realize that he was not in fact being attacked, he had been a bit…less than impressed…with his brother’s tactics. But it was too difficult to stay mad at Izuna, especially when he looked so adorable bundled into his too-big coat. At six years old, Izuna had an advantage over his toddler little brothers: he was old enough to realize that his older brother had a huge soft spot where he was concerned - and smart enough to exploit it.

“Nii-san!” He sang, splashing through puddles of melted snow with far too much energy for less than an hour past dawn, “You’re going to train with me, right?”

“Why else would I be out of bed?” Madara grumbled. This was technically Izuna’s training exercise, according to Izuna himself, so really there was no need for Madara to be tagging along; he could have been nice and warm under his blankets, getting an extra hour or two of sleep, if not for his little brother’s pleading to _please please come along, Nii-san!_

Not deterred by his older brother’s grumpy mood, Izuna gave him a crafty look and asked, “Hey, did you bring along any food?”

Madara sighed in annoyance but dug in his pockets for the dried meat he’d stashed there. He should have known Izuna would sniff out his snacks. For somebody so small, he ate an awful lot.

“You can have ONE,” Madara said, very generously, holding out a strip of meat with one hand and keeping the other for himself.

Izuna grabbed the offered strip, yelled “Thanks, Nii-san!”, gave Madara a quick hug around the waist, and used the opportunity and the slight distraction to snatch the second strip from Madara’s other hand. Laughing, he dashed off into the forest before his brother could grab him and drag him back.

“ _Izuna!_ ” Madara howled, already in hot pursuit. He sprinted after his nuisance of a little brother, yelling threats that just made Izuna giggle harder as he dodged between trees. Madara chased him down a short incline and through a thicket of trees, finally skidding out of the forest and onto the shore of a small lake.

The sight of their father waiting with arms crossed brought both of them up short. Madara stood up straight and did his best to catch his breath as Tajima cast a disapproving eye over his sons.

“You two,” he said, face stony, “Do you think we are here to play games?”

“No, Father,” answered Izuna, still panting a little from the run. Then, because he was an idiot who didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, he added, “Um, what are we here for, exactly? I mean, what training am I doing today?”

The corners of Tajima’s mouth turned down ever so slightly as Madara winced. “Izuna, _you_ are here today to learn to control your chakra. You waste half your chakra with every technique you perform, and it makes you weak and sloppy. A proper shinobi always exerts perfect control over himself.”

Izuna opened his mouth to say something, probably to defend himself, but Madara nudged him silent. Luckily, their father was turning towards the lake to continue his explanation and didn’t notice. “You have seen how your older brother walks on water by balancing on chakra focused at the bottom of his feet. This requires the highest level of control over one’s chakra. You will learn this technique today.”

Suddenly, the setup – the early hour, the season, the training specifically for Izuna – started to make sense. Tajima intended to teach Izuna how to walk on water using the fastest and most effective way possible; the method by which Madara himself had learned, two years previously.

Balancing on the rocky shore, Tajima put one foot on the frozen surface of the lake. “Listen carefully, Izuna. This is how you will learn to control your chakra: you will walk across this frozen lake by focusing your chakra on the bottoms of your feet. The ice will help you learn how to hold your chakra evenly; but if you do not balance your chakra correctly, it will not hold your weight. Send out too much chakra in one place, or too little in another, and….” the ice under his foot buckled and cracked warningly. Tajima withdrew his boot.

Thanks to this training, Madara had become the youngest in the clan to learn to control his chakra well enough to walk on water, and his father had received considerable praise for it. The thin ice had helped him figure out how to balance, but more importantly, had also forced him to use all his willpower and concentration to focus his chakra. Plunging a foot into the freezing water by accident was painful, as he’d learned; falling into the water could be deadly. Madara felt a tendril of unease slither its way into his gut. He’d done his training in the fall, when the lake had just frozen, rather than in the spring when it was beginning to thaw. That meant that he had been almost a year older at the time than Izuna was now. Sure, Izuna had been practicing his chakra control over the past several months, learning to walk up tree trunks. But those tree-climbing exercises had mostly ended up with Izuna yelling, “Catch me, Nii-san!” and then leaping at him from the branches – not exactly the most rigorous training. Was he really ready for this?

Izuna was already down at the shore, gingerly testing the ice with one foot. Madara turned to his father. “Maybe I should go with him, just in case….”

“No,” Tajima said, his tone a rebuke. “You shelter your brother too much, Madara. The shinobi world leaves no room for those who cannot stand on their own.”

“Yes, Father,” Madara said. The uneasy feeling twisted in his stomach again.

Raising his voice, Tajima called to Izuna, “Your task will be to walk across the lake without causing the ice to crack. You will walk from here to your brother, who will wait for you on the other side.” As Izuna chirped his acknowledgement, Tajima lowered his voice and ordered, “Go to the opposite shore and wait for Izuna there. Don’t interfere with his training.”

Madara nodded his understanding. Turning to Izuna, he gave his brother what he hoped was a reassuring look. “See you on the other side!”, he said, and leapt into the trees.

Not wanting to risk cracking the ice ahead of Izuna’s path, Madara circled the lake, jumping easily from branch to branch. It took only a few minutes for him to reach the opposite shore, but by the time he took up his position he could already see Izuna’s little form waddling carefully onto the ice, both arms outstretched for balance. When he saw his big brother emerge from the trees, Izuna paused and gave him a reckless little wave, which Madara returned, swallowing his nervousness. The lake wasn’t very large – Madara could run across it in less than a minute, surely.

Izuna was moving very slowly, cautiously shuffling forward first one foot, then the other. He wasn’t taking his feet off the ice, which was good; the easiest way to lose your balance and make the ice crack was to try to stand on one leg. Madara had actually made that mistake himself, when he first tried to walk on the ice. He’d struggled a bit at the beginning, trying to focus his chakra in just the right way to keep himself upright on the ice without slipping, but once he’d gotten the hang of it, walking across the lake had been a breeze. Izuna didn’t look like he was having any trouble – he was already a good distance away from the shore. That had to mean he already had the trick of it.

Actually, Madara realized, Izuna was taking the most direct path to him: straight across the lake, instead of skirting along the shoreline. He must be feeling confident, to walk across deep water most of the way. If he fell in, he’d get more than just a cold shock – he could drown in the frigid water. Madara shifted apprehensively and told himself that it was a good thing Izuna was taking risks. The shinobi world had no room for cowards.

_Protect your brother_ , a treacherous voice whispered in the back of Madara’s mind. Try as he might to ignore it, he could feel the danger Izuna was in prickling at him like a handful of shuriken. His father had impressed upon him the responsibility of an older brother, to care for and protect – but it was his father who had ordered him to stand by and watch.

Madara stood at the edge of the lake and watched as Izuna made his agonizingly slow way across the ice, his tiny form growing steadily larger. He made it past the halfway point, his steps gradually growing more confident, until finally he was close enough for Madara to see the proud grin on his face. Looking up to find his brother watching him, Izuna stopped and called out, “Nii-san! Look at me!”

Madara stretched out his arms towards his brother. “I see you, Izuna! You’re doing great!”

Izuna lifted his foot for another step. He looked so sure of himself; no doubt he’d be across the lake in a few more moments, and Madara would congratulate him, and they’d walk back together –

_Crack_.

The sharp sound echoed through the morning air. Madara’s heart froze in his chest.

Izuna froze as well, foot still raised. Slowly, confidence forgotten, he lowered his foot back to the ice….cautiously slid it forwards…

The ice beneath him gave way, plunging him into the water.

_“IZUNA!”_ Madara screamed. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself racing onto the ice towards his brother. Izuna had managed to grab the crumbling edge of the broken ice and was scrabbling with his hands, trying to find purchase to pull himself up, but the ice groaned and cracked under his weight. Madara lunged for his brother’s hand, throwing himself onto his stomach to spread out his weight, and managed to catch one of Izuna’s flailing arms with his left hand. “It’s alright! I’ve got you!”

He had just enough time to look into Izuna’s eyes, wide and terrified in his pale face, before the ice split underneath them and sent them both tumbling into the freezing lake.

The shock of the cold knocked the breath from Madara’s lungs. Freezing water closed around him like a fist, deadening his limbs and suffocating his movements. A dead weight was slipping through his numb fingers – _Izuna!_ He had to get Izuna out! Madara clenched his hand with every ounce of his willpower and forced his eyes open against the sting of the water, saw eerie light filtering through the ice on the surface, and kicked desperately in the direction of the light, dragging his brother through the water. He needed air, but he could make it, the surface was right there –

His reaching fingers met smooth, solid ice. Where was the hole they’d fallen through?! No time to look for it, with his lungs screaming for air. Madara struck the ice with his free hand, trying to break it, but to no avail – the ice was too solid, somehow, or his blows were too weak. He would have to melt the ice with a Katon jutsu, but there was no breath in his lungs for a fireball, and he couldn’t let go of Izuna to make the hand signs. In desperation, Madara gave up on using a jutsu, drove all the hot, burning chakra in his body into his right hand, and slammed it into the ice.

The ice exploded outwards. Madara finally broke the surface, gasping for air. With a supreme effort, he managed to get his arm over the solid edge of the ice and, using his chakra to push himself up, dragged his body out of the water, keeping his vise-like grip on Izuna’s hand. Once on solid ice, Madara grabbed Izuna’s arm with both hands and pulled him up beside him onto the ice, where he lay, coughing and shivering. Madara clutched at his brother’s shoulder. “Izuna! Are you alright?”

Izuna managed to nod through the coughs wracking his body. His lips were blue, but he’d pushed himself up on his forearms and was drawing in air in huge, painful gasps. Madara himself could hardly do much more than lie on the ice and shiver, still feeling as if the cold water were crushing his lungs. Dully, he realized that his right arm was throbbing in pain, and the glove on his hand was charred as if from fire, though it was soaking wet.

Minutes passed. Slowly, the burning in Madara’s chest began to recede, and the sharp talons of cold clutching at his flesh started to fade into freezing numbness. He and Izuna needed to get somewhere warm, he realized, or the cold could still be deadly. Through he heaviness in his limbs, Madara struggled into a kneeling position – and only then noticed his father, standing a few paces away.

He was standing there, watching them, making no move to help. Madara looked to his left, where Izuna was still lying on the ice. He would need Tajima’s help to get Izuna back to the compound; if Madara had to carry him in his current state, he wouldn’t make it far. But their father was only watching, a look of disapproval, not of concern, on his face.

“Father,” Madara croaked, his throat burning from the coughing.

At that, Tajima walked over to him until he was standing over his son. “You see what happens,” he said quietly, “when you spoil your brother?”

With a sudden rush of hot anger, Madara thought, _He meant for this to happen_. He’d known Izuna wasn’t ready for this training, and he’d sent him out anyways to fail. Madara stared down at his hands, fingers curling into claws against the ice. His burned hand pulsed painfully. His father could have just let Madara walk across the ice with his brother, and this never would have happened; but he’d forced Madara to watch from the shore instead – was he trying to get Izuna _killed?_

Before Madara could give voice to the thoughts churning in his mind, Tajima spoke again. “Izuna. You should have been able to master this task. Understand what happens when you don’t take your training seriously: if you fail like this on the battlefield, you will be killed.”

He was nearly killed today! Madara wanted to scream. He lifted his head – and paused. His father must have known that Madara wouldn’t let Izuna drown during a training exercise… but in a real battle, would things go the same way? Madara was strong for his age, but the enemies of the Uchiha clan were strong as well; there was no guarantee that he would be able to protect his little brother. If he wanted Izuna to live, he had to make sure that Izuna grew up strong enough to protect himself.

Was growing strong worth the risks of training like this? It _had_ to be. Izuna couldn’t die.

“Let this be a lesson to both of you,” Tajima said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father”, Madara replied, looking back at the ice.

“Yes, Father”, rasped Izuna. When Madara looked back at him, he saw Izuna’s small face set into a determined expression. That was good – he wouldn’t fail this training a second time.

Finally, Tajima extended a hand to help his younger son to his feet. “You two, change into dry clothes. Izuna, as soon as you have recovered, I expect you back here to practice.”


	2. Nightmares and Dreams

“Hashirama! There you are!”

Finally! Hashirama had been starting to get worried.

“Madara!” he called, scrambling to his feet and running across the river towards his friend. It had been ages since the two of them had managed to meet at the riverbank, and Hashirama had been desperately looking forward it. The dull horror of the battlefield, the ache of worry for his brother, and the sharp pain of his budding kekkei genkai had all started to blur together, but through it all, Hashirama had been saving up things he wanted to tell Madara. “I can’t believe it’s been so long - woah! What happened to your face?”

Madara cupped a protective hand over his truly spectacular black eye. “Nothing!” He said, and then, in response to Hashirama’s skeptical look, amended, “Just training.”

“Must have been some training,” Hashirama replied cautiously. He was approaching dangerous territory: as much as he would have loved to know more about Madara’s life, any knowledge of his friend’s clan could be dangerous for both of them.

Madara raised his chin and puffed up his chest a little. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he replied, giving Hashirama a proud look. The worry in Hashirama’s chest, which he would _never admit was there_ , eased a little. Of course his friend would be his old smug, arrogant self, no matter what training he had to endure. Still, Hashirama should probably make fun of him a little, just to be sure. “Really?” He said with a straight face, “I guess nobody ever stands behind you while you’re training, then…”

“Don’t bring that up!” Madara yelped, going red in the face. Hashirama couldn’t suppress a laugh – Madara was _so_ easy to tease! He could hardly ever get Tobirama to fall for his pranks anymore; he’d become too crafty, and too used to his brother’s antics. But Madara was a perfect target.

“Let’s see if you’re still laughing after you see my new jutsu!” Madara challenged, pointing angrily at his friend.

“You’re on!” said Hashirama. Excited, he brought his hands up to make his first seal; he had some new jutsu of his own to show off. “First one to get knocked down loses!”

“As usual”, replied Madara, and with that, they were off.

\---

Nearly an hour later, Hashirama called a draw. He hadn’t really been going all out, and he was certain Madara hadn’t been either, but even so his friend was incredibly strong. Sometimes Hashirama wondered what would happen if it ever came to a real battle between them – but he tried his best not to think about that. Sparring with Madara was fun, and that was all.

They recovered from the mock battle by sprawling on the riverbank, eating the sticky buns Hashirama had snuck out with him. Hashirama stared out at the river as he ate, thinking. His mind had returned to Madara’s bruised face, and his thoughts had started to circle that black eye like water going down a drain. It brought to the front of his mind a question that had been haunting him lately, which he badly wanted to ask; but would Madara understand?  He was strong – at least evenly matched with Hashirama – and that had to mean that his training was harsh. From some of his more careless comments, Hashirama was willing to bet that he had some kekkei genkai that hadn’t fully manifested yet, just as Hashirama’s mokuton was still emerging. Was he trying everything he could to awaken that power?

One thing Hashirama knew for certain: Madara would be willing to endure any training if it meant he could protect his little brother. In that regard, Hashirama knew, they were exactly alike. He’d been struck by it after Itama’s death, the similarity between himself and Madara, the dreams and goals that united them. Hashirama couldn’t voice his doubts to his own clan, but Madara – if anyone could understand the dilemma that faced him, it would be Madara.

As if reading his thoughts, Madara nudged him. “Something on your mind, Hashirama?”

Madara would understand, Hashirama was sure of it. But still he hesitated; he had to speak carefully, or he would reveal too much. “The training that you do,” he began, “is it…really difficult?”

Madara just shrugged. “I already told you: it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah, of course! I mean, I know _you_ can handle it, but…that wasn’t really what I was thinking.”

His friend paused halfway through biting into a sticky bun. “What do you mean?”

Hashirama’s stomach had started to turn unpleasantly. “I mean…you do whatever you have to, right, because you want to become strong. And, and you want to become strong because you need to protect your brother, right? So it doesn’t matter what you have to do to get that power. You have to do it.”

“Yeah,” said Madara quietly.

“But, do you ever think…whatever you do, if it works, and you get that power you wanted…your brother’s going to have to do the same thing?” Hashirama said, his mouth suddenly dry.

Madara considered for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, he could easily get…that power…some other way. Most people in my clan do,” he added, almost to himself. “My fa – I mean, I only have to do it this way because I still haven’t managed it on my own.”

He could never tell Madara, but this certainly wasn’t true for Hashirama: he had been the first of his clan in centuries to awaken the mokuton. He remembered when he’d first discovered that power, how amazed he’d been with the possibilities of creating life out of his chakra – it had felt like a gift. But his clan saw only the possibilities of his power used to kill, and he was duty bound to obey his clan. Even as he struggled to shape that raw power, always so difficult to grasp, into jutsu he could wield as weapons, he could see his father wasn’t satisfied. Hashirama saw the way his father looked at Tobirama as if measuring him up: considering the likelihood that if one brother had a hidden kekkei genkai, the other might as well.

Hashirama knew it wasn’t possible. It had been obvious to him from the beginning that his kekkei genkai required the combination of water- and earth-type chakras, and Tobirama lacked the earth. But Senju Butsuma never seemed to really hear Hashirama’s explanation. Maybe Butsuma really did understand that his younger son would never wield the mokuton, but it hardly mattered – Hashirama’s strength was the stick by which his little brother was measured. In the eyes of their father, the mokuton wasn’t Hashirama’s success; it was Tobirama’s failing.

Slowly, Hashirama said, “What if your brother doesn’t get that power in the usual way?”

 His little brother, always so clever and attentive, had never lagged behind him before. It was Hashirama who usually struggled with difficult seals and fine control, and Tobirama who mastered all of it with ease. Until recently, Hashirama would have said there was no jutsu invented that Tobirama couldn’t learn. Was that what their father was thinking as well?

Madara put down his bun to stare at him as he continued, “If you become strong by training in a certain way, won’t he be expected to do the same?”

His little brother, already so serious, stern and proud at the age of eleven. His brother, who always tried to hide his fear so Hashirama wouldn’t worry about him, who trained with a sword that was much too large for him, who was convinced he could deal with everything on his own. Hashirama didn’t want to imagine what trying to awaken the mokuton would do to him.

“What you’re saying is,” began Madara haltingly, “the farther we go to become strong…the more we do in order to gain power…the more our brothers are going to have to do?”

“We’re carving out the road for them,” said Hashirama, and then, bitterly, “isn’t that a big brother’s role?”

“A big brother’s role is to protect his siblings,” answered Madara automatically, sounding as if he were quoting someone. “That’s all I’m trying to do. How am I supposed to protect my brother if I’m not strong?”

All of their plans – to protect their brothers, to build the village they’d dreamed about – hinged on becoming stronger. In the shinobi world, power was the only currency that truly mattered; and gaining power required sacrifice. And yet –

“I feel like this power is something I have to protect my brother _from_.”

Madara was silent for a long moment. Without warning, he slammed the palm of his hand into the ground beside him, sending pebbles flying out in every direction. “What am I supposed to do, then?” he cried. “I can’t stop training, or I might let Izuna get killed; and I can’t stop _him_ from training, because if he doesn’t have the Sha – that power, he won’t be able to defend himself.”

“I don’t know!” said Hashirama, “I don’t know…”

“I can’t let him die,” said Madara, shaking his head, “Our other brothers died because I wasn’t strong enough. I can’t let up on my training now, or he’ll die… and it’ll be my fault.”

Hashirama looked at him. He’d curled both hands into fists in his lap and was staring down at his clenched hands. Hashirama knew, deep down, that Madara would be able to find no solution. Hashirama had spent more than a few sleepless nights with his thoughts circling and circling: if he kept training his mokuton, Tobirama might be forced to endure the same…if Hashirama didn’t train, he wouldn’t be able to use his mokuton in battle, and then Tobirama might die…but the more powerful Hashirama became, the greater the expectations on his brother…but forgo that power, and he would be helpless to protect the people he loved…

But at least, if he could find no way out, he still had a friend who understood. Hashirama put a tentative hand on Madara’s shoulder. “Madara,” he said, as gently as he could, “it isn’t your fault your brothers died.”

His friend turned his head to look at him, eyes hollow. “Do you really believe that, Hashirama?” he whispered. “When you think about how your little brothers got killed, don’t you ever think, ‘why wasn’t I there to protect them’?”

Hashirama had no answer. How could he absolve Madara of blame when he himself carried the same guilt?

When Kawarama and Itama were alive, Hashirama had always tried his best to make his three brothers forget that they were living in the cruel world of shinobi. The little ones had always loved his silly antics, and while Tobirama of course had mostly pretended that he was too dignified to be amused, Hashirama wasn’t fooled – he knew Tobirama needed that fun as much as anyone. But Hashirama’s efforts had been useless to prevent his brothers from being slaughtered in a pointless war. What use was protecting Tobirama from the harsh realities of their lives if it meant he’d be killed on the battlefield?

Hashirama withdrew his hand. “If there’s no other way to protect our brothers, I know we have to do it. I just…I just don’t think it’s right.”

Madara gave a short, bitter laugh. “It’s right if it helps our brothers survive.” He was silent for a moment, and then suddenly, said, “But…Hashirama, you said the other day that when we build our shinobi village, we should start a school for kids, so they can learn and grow up strong.”

“Yeah,” replied Hashirama, grasping at the tendril of hope Madara was offering, “I did say that…”

“I think it’s a good idea. We should assign a few ninja to be teachers – pick some people who are really good with kids, and start with the basics.” Madara had let his hands relax and was absentmindedly sifting through the stones beside his legs as he talked. “Make sure none of the kids get pushed too fast, you know?”

Hashirama smiled. “You know, I think you’d make a great teacher.”

Madara scoffed, but the corners of his mouth turned up. “Don’t be silly! You’d put our strongest shinobi in the school? Who will be left to defend the village?”

“Hey!” Hashirama gave his friend a playful nudge. “Who says _you’ll_ be our strongest shinobi?”

“Well, your new Mud Shuriken Fountain no Jutsu or whatever that was from earlier probably says so,” answered Madara, giving his friend a mischievous grin.

“I worked on that jutsu for weeks!” gasped Hashirama, pressing a dramatic hand to his heart.

 “Then I’m not sure we should make _you_ a teacher either…” Madara told him, looking at him doubtfully. He ignored Hashirama’s wounded cries of protest and considered for a moment before adding, “Actually, I wouldn’t mind helping out with the school. Maybe we could set tests for the students when they’re old enough, and judge if they’re ready to go on missions.”

Madara was really serious about this. Hashirama was glad – their shared dream of building a village was something he could cling to when things felt hopeless. Talking about it with Madara made it seem less like a wish, and more like a _plan_ ; not something they would hope for, but something they would _make happen_. A shinobi village where their clans were not constantly at war, and where kids could grow up and become strong without being sent off to fight and die. His dark mood finally lifting, Hashirama beamed at his friend. “I think that’s a great idea!”

“Do you?” said Madara, “then that’s one more thing we’ll have to make our clans agree to, once we get stronger.” He offered his hand to Hashirama with a wry smile. “Shake on it.”

Clasping Madara’s hand, Hashirama gave it an enthusiastic shake. “It’s a promise!”

\---

Of course, their shared dream was only to survive another few short months. All of their talks, all of their plans, were ended with just four short words: “I am _Uchiha_ Madara”.

It was the first time Hashirama had met Madara’s beloved little brother. To Hashirama’s despair, it was not to be the last.


	3. Under the Red Moonlight

Tobirama woke in the freezing moonlight to find his brother gone.

He reached out a hand to poke at Hashirama’s bedroll – definitely gone. What the hell could he be doing? Out for a pleasant midnight stroll, near Iron Country in the dead of winter? Most likely nothing was wrong; but then, his idiot brother had an annoying habit of going and getting into trouble, so it was probably best that Tobirama go and look for him. Cursing silently to himself, Tobirama struggled out of his own bedroll as quietly as possible so as not to wake his father and the other shinobi sharing the tent and stepped outside into the snow.

It was bitterly cold outside of the tent. Tobirama pulled his fur collar more securely around his neck, glad for once that he’d been sleeping in his clothes. Camped out in the frozen wilderness on the way back from a mission, he and his fellow clan members had been forced to wear every layer possible in order to keep warm. Tobirama didn’t hate the cold as much as Hashirama did, but even he was seriously looking forward to the comfort of the Senju compound, only a few more days of travel away – assuming, of course, that they weren’t delayed by a certain over-enterprising elder brother.

Concentrating, Tobirama caught the faint but perceptible feeling of his brother’s chakra. He followed it for several minutes, walking away from their camp and up a rocky outcropping that ended abruptly in a cliff overlooking a frozen lake. There at the top was Hashirama, fully dressed but for his armour, standing with his arms at his sides and doing nothing but staring out into the sky.

“Anija,” Tobirama said with a sigh, “what are you doing out here? It’s the middle of the night.”

No reply. “Anija?” Tobirama repeated with annoyance, stamping his feet to generate some warmth.

Without looking at him, Hashirama said, “There’s a blood moon tonight.”

Well, the full moon was definitely a reddish colour, but Tobirama really didn’t see how this was any cause to be out here in the cold. He crossed his arms and gave his brother an unimpressed look, not that Hashirama saw it. “So?”

“Something is going to happen,” replied his brother, finally looking down at him. His face looked strange and forbidding in the moonlight. “I have a feeling.”

Wandering off in the night might not have been unusual for his brother, but ominous prophecies definitely were. Was Hashirama joking with him? “What about the moon has you worried, Anija?” Tobirama said, half sarcastic, “The new moon is the time for a sneak attack, not the full moon.”

“I don’t know,” said Hashirama “I know it doesn’t make sense; I just feel like something is closing in on us.” He held out his hand. “I’m going to try something. Take my hand so you’ll be able to see me, and try to sense any unusual chakra around us.”

Baffled, Tobirama took his brother’s hand, and without warning, the world around them was plunged into darkness.

Tobirama inhaled sharply as waves of undulating black rolled dizzyingly under his feet – was he still standing on solid ground? But there was his brother next to him, just as he’d said. “What the hell is this jutsu?” Tobirama demanded, unnerved.

“I’ll explain about it later,” said Hashirama. “Just see if you can feel any chakra you don’t recognize. If there’s anyone around us, they’ll need to unmask their chakra to break my jutsu.”

Uneasy at his brother’s strange behaviour, Tobirama nevertheless decided to do as he suggested. Closing his eyes against the oppressive darkness, Tobirama cast out his senses: there beside him was Hashirama, obviously; a bit farther, their sleeping clanmates; out in the forest, nothing; nothing; nothing –

A scalding burst of chakra to his right, and then more, flaring into his perception like lit torches. Tobirama’s eyes snapped open. “Uchiha!” he gasped, “They’re here!”

“How many?” demanded Hashirama.

“I don’t know – I sensed twenty, thirty, maybe more –“

“They must have somehow found out that we’d be travelling out here – “

Tobirama drew in a sharp breath. “The others! I have to go warn them – “ he dropped his brother’s hand, and as he did so, the pervasive darkness began to trickle away like oil, letting the world seep back into view.

“No!” snapped his brother, grabbing him by the shoulder, “It’s too late! The Uchiha will have sensed us by now; they’ll move to cut us off. I’ll send a clone to warn the others.” He was already weaving hand signs as he spoke, making roots spring forth from the ground and coalesce into a vaguely human form. The clone broke off from the ground and began to run before it had even fully formed. “Listen, Tobirama,” said Hashirama urgently, “Our only chance is to make a stand here. No matter what, we can’t let them separate us - understand?”

Tobirama understood. In the forest they’d be attacked from all sides; but here they had the high ground, and the steep cliff at their backs. They had to stay here, and stay together: if they got separated, they would be vulnerable to the enemy’s genjutsu. Drawing a kunai, Tobirama asked, “You didn’t bring your weapons scroll out here, did you?” He spared a moment to mourn for his sword and armour, both back in the tent, but Hashirama was right – there was no time to fetch them. At least he slept with his kunai and shuriken on him.

“Sorry, Tobirama,” said his brother, eyes rapidly scanning the spectral trees around them. “We’ll have to make do without.”

“Next time you have a weird feeling about the moon, bring the scroll, will you?” griped Tobirama, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother. The two of them stood with their backs to the edge of the cliff, facing the forest, where Tobirama could now sense the roiling, ominous chakra of the Uchiha slowly building.

“We’ll be alright as long as we stay together,” said Hashirama. “We just have to stay alive until sunrise, alright? That’s all we have to do, Tobirama: stay together, and stay alive.”

“I’m right here,” Tobirama assured him. Stay alive: now that was an order more easily said than obeyed. Tobirama had always expected to die in battle, but he really had been hoping to make it past the age of sixteen. He raised the kunai, knees slightly bent, and prepared himself. One breath, two breaths –

And the forest was suddenly full of red eyes.

Shuriken came whirling out of the darkness towards them, targeting vital points with unerring accuracy; Tobirama deflected them with his kunai, gritting his teeth in concentration, and readied himself for the real assault that was certain to follow. Sure enough, in the wake of the shuriken rushed five dark-robed figures. Two broke off to target Tobirama – he waited until they were close, dodged an overhand sword swing, and dropped low to kick the legs out from under his opponent. As he righted himself the second Uchiha came at him with a flying kick, which Tobirama caught on his braced forearm and deflected. He swiped a little wildly with his kunai and leapt back to avoid the first ninja. The kunai gave him no reach - what he wouldn’t give for his two-handed sword!

The enemy ninja pressed forwards with rapid-fire attacks, keeping Tobirama on the defensive. They had the advantage of numbers as well as reach, not to mention the unnatural speed afforded by the Sharingan, but Tobirama was used to fighting at a disadvantage. He dodged a sword thrust by a hairsbreadth and grabbed his opponent’s arm as it flew past, using the Uchiha’s own momentum to fling him to the ground. He spun around just as the second shinobi was about to strike and managed to get inside his swing, slamming the heel of his hand into the man’s jaw. The Uchiha flipped backwards to get out of range, then paused. By now the first shinobi was back on his feet, but instead of attacking, the pair suddenly retreated back into the forest. Puzzled, Tobirama looked to his right; the three Uchiha who’d been fighting Hashirama were gone as well. That could only mean –

“ _Suiton!”_ cried Tobirama, forming the handseals as quickly as he could manage even as a wall of flame came blasting out of the trees towards them. He could hear the lake behind them cracking as he struggled to summon enough water; his whirlpool jutsu took hold just as the fire reached them, enveloping the brothers in a spinning cocoon of water. The flames hissed angrily as they broke on the spout, sending up great clouds of steam. Tobirama concentrated on keeping the wall of water up around them, until finally the fire was spent, leaving only a thick white fog.

A figure darted through the mist towards them, barely visible in the steam, and threw a kunai at his head. Tobirama dove out of the way and rolled, cursing mentally. Of course the Uchiha had anticipated that he’d counter with a water jutsu: the steam provided a perfect cover for them to attack, and naturally posed no barrier to their eyesight. How he hated fighting against the Sharingan! He’d learned that the only ways to win against it were to either be fast enough that the user couldn’t react in time even if they saw the attack coming – a difficult feat at the best of times –  or use a trick that the Sharingan couldn’t spot. Crouching in the fog, Tobirama created a pair of kage bunshin. That should even the odds a little, he thought with satisfaction; the Sharingan could easily pick out a regular bunshin, but his invented jutsu was a bit more troublesome.

The ground in front of Tobirama split. Before he could react, a gloved hand closed around his leg and gave a sharp tug, sending Tobirama sprawling as an enemy shinobi emerged from the now-gaping crack in the rock. Desperately Tobirama twisted to free himself of the hold on his leg, but his opponent struck him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs, and aimed a kunai for his heart - at the last moment Tobirama cast a substitution jutsu and summoned one of his own clones to take his place. He escaped by sinking into the rock beneath him, using the same Earth jutsu the Uchiha had used to surprise him. The enemy ninja, Sharingan momentarily confused by the kage bunshin, drove the kunai under the clone’s breastbone, making it dissipate in a cloud of smoke; in the fleeting distraction, Tobirama grabbed the Uchiha from behind and slid his own knife between her ribs. He felt his last kage bunshin evaporate, and spun around to find himself surrounded, three dark-clad figures leaping towards him. As his enemies closed in, Tobirama threw himself to the ground and activated the explosive tag attached to his kunai.

The explosion shook the ground beneath him and singed the air above him. Coughing, Tobirama looked up through the smoke and saw that the clifftop was clear: the Uchiha who’d been running at him had been killed or knocked off the rockface. Where was Hashirama? Tobirama began crawling to the edge of the cliff, keeping low so as to avoid being spotted by enemy shinobi. He peered over the edge of the cliff and spotted Hashirama on the ground, locked in a struggle with four opponents. As Tobirama watched, one of the figures on the ground turned his head and looked straight at him, and Tobirama suddenly recognized him: Uchiha Izuna. Red eyes flashed in the darkness, and with a smooth movement Izuna turned and ran his sword through Hashirama’s chest.

A ragged cry of shock burst from Tobirama’s throat. Below him, Hashirama grabbed the blade of the sword that impaled him as if to pull it out, his fingers slipping on the bloody steel. Tobirama had to get to him, had to help him; but his limbs were suddenly difficult to move, as if the air had turned to water; and the distance to his brother seemed to expand the more he struggled. Time slowed down –  he watched, helpless, as the Uchiha in the ground each saw their opportunity and drove their own blades into Hashirama’s torso. Bloody hands slipped off Izuna’s blade as Hashirama’s knees finally gave out; he slumped, head lolling back, blood spilling from his mouth –

“ _Release!”_

The next instant Hashirama was right there, crouching in front of Tobirama and holding him tightly by the shoulders, blood-spattered and pale but very much alive. Tobirama gasped for breath, suddenly realizing that his lungs were empty. His brother shook him gently, his face full of worry. “Are you alright, Tobirama?”

Tobirama managed a nod. “G-genjutsu?” he got out between his chattering teeth. Of course: he’d looked right into Izuna’s eyes. Of all the stupid, ridiculous, _dangerous_ mistakes to make.

His brother nodded and pulled him to his feet. Despite the cold, sweat was dripping into his eyes; Tobirama dashed it away angrily and drew two more kunai, assuming a ready stance on his still-shaky legs. As he turned, he glanced down at the place where Hashirama had been fighting: nothing was left but a tangle of bloody branches and mangled bodies.

The clifftop began to shake. In front of him, Hashirama was grimacing in concentration, hands clasped together; trees were emerging from cracks in the rock, surrounding them with a lashing thicket of wood and leaves. “Tobirama!” his brother shouted, “if they can’t get through this, they’ll try to burn it down. Can you stop the fire jutsu?”

Already Tobirama could see a flickering orange light through the screen of slithering branches. He had no idea how many Uchiha remained, but he and his brother were clearly still greatly outnumbered. Tobirama had no idea how long he could defend against so many opponents, but he had no choice but to try, so he shouted an affirmative to his brother and formed the handseals for a water missile jutsu. Hashirama drew back the defensive curtain of branches, giving him a split second to aim; Tobirama sent a blast of water in the direction of the flames with as much force as he could manage; there was a scream, and Hashirama whipped his branches back into place just in time to deflect a hail of shuriken. “Keep it up!” he called to his brother.

Easier said than done, Tobirama thought for the second time that night. His hands, clenched into the formation of a sign, were starting to tremble. “Anija,” he panted, “my chakra…”

“Just hold on a little while longer!” Hashirama replied, “we just have to make it to sunrise.”

The sky was starting to look a bit lighter; but maybe that was just the light from the fire jutsu. Although the Uchiha with their Sharingan had the advantage in the dark, Hashirama’s mokuton would gain strength in the sun. Tobirama took a deep breath, locked his shaky legs, and drew a fresh stream of water into the air. No matter how long he had to keep going, he wouldn’t falter, not when his brother needed his help. He readied himself and waited for Hashirama to pull aside the branches again, letting him take aim at the approaching enemy.

After that, everything began to blur together. He moved in synchrony with his brother, attacking as Hashirama defended, varying his water jutsu in reaction to the blasts of fire that blew towards them. He saw at one point an enemy shinobi lifted bodily off the ground by a branch protruding through his abdomen; saw Hashirama take a kunai to the forearm when he failed to hit it away with his mokuton; felt what he thought was water dripping down his face until he licked his lips and tasted blood. Throughout it all, he felt his brother’s chakra beside him, steady and solid. He had no idea how long it was before he found himself waiting for the next blast of fire and finding that it wasn’t coming.

Hashirama let his mokuton retreat back into the ground. The sun, Tobirama suddenly realized, was just peering over the eastern horizon. The enemy chakra in the forest had gone; in the dim light, Tobirama could see only bare rock surrounding them, and in the forest, only trampled snow and broken branches. The Uchiha must have taken the bodies of their clanmates and retreated.

Tobirama’s legs buckled and he sat hard on the ground. Hashirama sat beside him, no more gracefully. “Are you hurt, Tobirama?” he asked, peering with concern at his little brother. “I can heal you, if you need it.”

Tobirama looked at his brother and barked out a laugh. Hashirama looked _awful_ : blood caking one side of his face, hair plastered to his back, his clothes torn and bloody, left sleeve looking badly charred. There was no way Tobirama had taken as much damage as that. “Heal yourself first, you idiot. You look terrible.”

“Not as terrible as your face,” his brother instantly shot back. Tobirama rolled his eyes, feeling himself relax a little. Trust Hashirama to be making stupid jokes even at a time like this. “Let me get that cut on your head,” he was saying, the stubborn bastard, reaching for Tobirama with fingers already glowing green.

“I can’t believe you have any chakra left,” grumbled Tobirama, but leaned his head forwards to let his brother heal him. He didn’t even remember when he’d been injured, although now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade he could feel various parts of his body suddenly making their complaints known. Hashirama placed a hand against his forehead, smoothed away the sting of the cut, and then gently mussed his little brother’s hair – something Tobirama always hated, but he was too tired to protest, so he just made a face at him. Hashirama smiled in reply.

The two brothers sat in silence for a while, leaning on each other. Moving seemed like too much of a challenge to even contemplate; Tobirama considered whether it would in fact be possible to live out the rest of his life sitting in exactly this spot. But the feeble rays of light seeping through the sky had started to reveal stark splashes of red against the snow, making the prospect of staying much less appealing. Tobirama tried not to look.

Beside him, Hashirama finally shifted. “Hey, did you sense Madara anywhere in that fight?” he asked.

Tobirama frowned. “No, I didn’t. He wasn’t fighting you?” Now that he thought of it, that was a little odd: Madara usually sought out his brother during battles. Remembering that genjutsu, he added, “I did see Izuna, though. Did you kill him?”

Hashirama shook his head. “No, I – I – he escaped.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. Then: “I didn’t sense Tajima here, either. If he and Madara weren’t attacking us, then…”

Then they must have been at the Senju campsite, fighting Butsuma and their and fellow shinobi. That made sense; after all, the bulk of their strength had been there, so it was only logical for the Uchiha to send their strongest fighters to the camp rather than the cliff. Tobirama felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t thought about his father or his clanmates the entire fight, too focused on his own survival to worry about theirs. Unease finally pushed through his exhaustion, forcing Tobirama to struggle to his feet. “We should get back,” he said, offering a hand to help up his brother.

Hashirama accepted his hand and let himself be tugged upright, only to ambush Tobirama by pulling him into a hug. “I’m just really glad you’re alright,” he said, voice slightly muffled by Tobirama’s fur collar. Tobirama patted his brother’s back a little awkwardly and tried to banish the image of Hashirama defeated and dying on the blades of the Uchiha. It was nothing he hadn’t thought about before, of course; but seeing it like that, nightmare somehow more vivid than reality, had left him shaken.

Finally, his brother pulled away; Tobirama pretended not to notice that his eyes were wet. Without a word, they both turned and headed towards what remained of their camp.


	4. To See With Eyes Unclouded

Red fingers of sunlight stabbed at his eyes; branches like dying hands clung to his clothing. The morning air felt thick as blood in Madara’s lungs as he stumbled through the forest. Blood dripped sluggishly from the corpse on his back, worming its way into his scant armour and sliding like a warm caress down his side. Blood lay on him thick as war paint, the smell clogging his nose, his hands slippery with it as he clutched a limp arm.

It had been a very long night.

With the sun peering over the horizon like an accusatory eye, Madara finally struggled into the clearing where the Uchiha had set up temporary camp, dragging his grisly burden with him. A row of bodies in tattered purple clothing stretched in front of him, neatly laid side by side in the snow. Madara knelt at the end of the line and slid the dead man off his back and, with as much care as his exhausted limbs could manage, laid him on the ground next to his clanmates. When he was finished, Madara stood and forced himself to count the bodies of his fellow shinobi. For what felt like hours – although judging by the position of the sun, it had really been less than one – he’d been searching for and retrieving the dead; at last, everyone was accounted for. There were eighteen corpses all told: nearly half of all the Uchiha they’d brought on this mission. Eighteen of his friends, people he knew, people he’d fought with, now slowly staining the snow. Many of them still had branches embedded in their mangled flesh. Madara felt a sudden wave of nausea and had to look away.

Around the clearing, surviving members of the Uchiha raiding party were huddled in small groups, talking in low voices and tending to their wounds. Madara spotted Hikaku standing alone at the edge of the clearing and made his way over to him. “Is that everyone?” he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to be certain.

Hikaku nodded. He looked exhausted, but at least he didn’t seem to be badly wounded. “You can take a break,” he said, concern in his voice, and Madara raised his eyebrows. He must look worse than Hikaku. “You brought back the most out of anyone.”

Grief and anger wrestled in Madara’s chest, both clamouring to be released as he struggled for something to say. Anger won out. “This shouldn’t have happened,” he blurted, trying to keep his voice low despite the rage he felt hot on the back of his throat. Hikaku just looked at him silently as he continued, “I told my father the Senju were too strong. Forget battling them, we could have just attacked quickly and run, instead of – instead of – this.”

Hikaku shrugged. “Did you hear? People are saying this is Izuna’s fault.”

That brought Madara up short. “What? Izuna?” He knew his brother was alive – even in the midst of the fighting, he’d kept a connection with his brother in the back of his mind, keeping a worried eye on Izuna’s chakra – but he hadn’t seen him since the start of the battle. “How could this possibly be his fault?” Madara knew where the blame lay: with his father, who’d insisted that this was their best chance to wipe out the Senju entirely, when all their best warriors were travelling and vulnerable. Their father, who had ordered Madara to remain with him and sent Izuna out alone.

“You heard Tajima,” said Hikaku. “He entrusted Izuna with the mission to kill Hashirama and his brother. Sent him with more than a third of our people, even though there were only two enemy shinobi. But I hear the Senju are still alive.” He gestured with a hand at the bodies in front of them. “And obviously Hashirama killed most of the shinobi who were sent after him.”

Madara seized his hair in frustration. “Of course he did! I told my father he was too strong!” But Tajima hadn’t believed him: Hashirama never showed his true strength on the battlefield. Most of the Uchiha, his father included, were convinced that Madara only failed to defeat him due to a lingering soft spot from their childhood friendship. But Hashirama had fought seriously tonight. Madara understood why – even after all these years, he still understood him – and he’d anticipated it from the beginning: Hashirama had been fighting to protect his brother.

They hadn’t predicted that Hashirama would be separated from the rest of the clan, but as the Uchiha strike team readied their ambush it had become apparent from the location of his chakra. A golden opportunity, Tajima had said. Splitting the strength of the Senju could only be to their advantage, and thus a two-pronged attack would be necessary. Madara had expected to be assigned to attack Hashirama, but instead Tajima appointed Izuna to lead the mission and kept Madara with him, ostensibly to make sure of Senju Butsuma’s death. In reality, Madara suspected it was to keep him, the treacherous son, away from the boy he’d once called a friend.

By then Madara had noticed Tobirama’s chakra start to move in the direction of his brother, and realized the danger Izuna was in. Hashirama might prefer to avoid killing when possible, but for the sake of his brother’s life Madara knew he wouldn’t hold back. So at the last minute, Madara had taken Izuna aside and in a hushed voice instructed him not to attack head on; to be wary of Hashirama’s strength; and to get out as quickly as he could. “If you’re injured, don’t try to fight, just run,” he’d begged him, trying to keep out of his father’s hearing. Izuna had nodded and told him not to worry. As if he was ever not worried about his little brother.

His father’s plan had worked: Senju Butsuma was dead. But the cost had been high – too high – and Butsuma’s sons still lived. In addition to losing so many of their people, they’d failed to wipe out the Senju as Tajima had hoped. And Izuna was being blamed for it?

“With that much backup, Izuna should have been able to handle it. Apparently he was wounded, and didn’t really give his people much support after that. That’s what I’ve overheard, anyways,” Hikaku was saying, shrugging to show he didn’t put all that much faith in what he’d overheard. “I think Tajima probably agrees.”

Madara was suddenly seized with a sense of foreboding. “Hikaku,” he said urgently, “where is Izuna now?”

“Uh, I think he’s off somewhere talking with Tajima. I saw them leave together maybe ten minutes ago?” Hikaku replied. “I guess Tajima wanted to go over the mission in private, figure out what happened.”

Hikaku’s words were innocuous, but Madara felt fear turn to ice in his stomach. In an instant he’d located his brother’s chakra – weak and flagging fast, how had he not noticed? – and was whirling around to sprint after it, ignoring Hikaku’s startled cry. Next to the flickering flame that was Izuna, Madara could easily sense his father’s chakra, flaring bright and strong. He had to find them fast.

\---

“Explain yourself,” said Tajima, looking down at Izuna with arms crossed, his eyes hard as flint. “What happened here?”

They were back at the battlefield, on the edge of the frozen lake, at the base of the scorched and bloodied rockface. Izuna held himself upright as best as he could manage and tried not to sway too obviously; wounded and drained of chakra, it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He hadn’t managed to accomplish his mission, but he would at least give a proper report.

“The Senju repelled our initial assault. We managed to separate them in the second attack and focused our strength on Hashirama, but he overpowered us.” It had been Izuna’s fault – he’d been the one battling Hashirama at the time, him and three of his strongest shinobi. They’d had him outnumbered and for a moment it had looked like they might win; but then Tobirama, caught in Izuna’s genjutsu, had screamed, and suddenly everything had changed. Within the space of a single blink of the Sharingan, Izuna’s three clanmates were dead, and Hashirama was bearing down on him with a kunai headed for his heart. Izuna had had time to look him in the eye – not enough time to cast a genjutsu, or to escape – and had seen his expression turn from determined fury to recognition to horror. At the last second, Hashirama had changed the direction of his kunai and plunged it instead into Izuna’s left shoulder with enough force to shatter his collarbone.

Izuna’s left arm hung limply at his side as he continued, “Hashirama used his wood jutsu to defend against attacks, so I judged that long-range jutsu would be most effective if we didn’t want to lose more shinobi. We did our best to break their defence, but Hashirama and his brother were able to counteract our jutsu. Once morning came, we were forced to retreat.” There: that was the whole nightmarish battle summed up in just a few short sentences, with none of the fear and chaos and pain of the actual event. Emotionless, as a shinobi should be.

Tajima tapped a finger against his arm, his expression unreadable. He was inspecting the base of the cliff, where a knot of bloody branches marked the spot at which one fourth of Izuna’s attacking force had been slaughtered. “How is it,” he said at last, drawing out his words, “that the Senju managed to survive?”

Had his report not been sufficient to explain? Izuna thought it was pretty clear: they had severely underestimated Hashirama. He tried again: “The Senju kekkei genkai – “

“I don’t want excuses.” Tajima cut him off, his tone brooking no argument. “You were given a mission with clear instructions. I want to know why you retreated before that mission was accomplished.”

The image of Madara, face tight with worry in the moonlight, urging him in a low voice not to fight if he was injured, flashed through Izuna’s mind. His father wouldn’t want to hear that he’d been heeding his brother’s advice; no doubt he’d be furious if he knew Madara had said anything. Holding his injured arm against his body, Izuna carefully got to his knees in the slush and bowed until his head touched the ground. “I accept responsibility for the failure of the mission. The reason we retreated is because I thought that if we kept attacking, most of us would have been killed.” What else could he say?

“I see,” said Tajima from above him. Then, utterly without warning, he stepped forwards, raised a booted foot, and kicked Izuna in the face.

The force of the blow snapped Izuna’s head up. Shocked, Izuna reeled back, clutching his nose with his good hand as blood began to drip down his chin. In front of him, Tajima’s eyes were suddenly lit with the whirling red of the Sharingan. “I see what happened. You were injured, and your enemy showed his strength, so you huddled in the bushes like a coward and tried to fight him from a distance. You’re weak, Izuna, because you’re always too afraid to fight like a proper shinobi.”

Through his bloody fingers Izuna watched his father advance, still talking. “What use does the clan have for someone as weak as you?” he said, and as Izuna struggled to rise to his feet, slowly drew his sword from its sheath on his hip. “Draw your sword. You should know by now that the Sharingan favours close combat, so stop retreating. I will demonstrate to you right now how to fight like a real Uchiha.”

Tajima had his sword out and was advancing on him, his expression giving no hint of mercy. Izuna had never seen his father threaten him like this before – he might push his sons hard during training, but he rarely punished them physically. Was this a genjutsu? With an effort, Izuna managed to tap his waning chakra reserves and activate his Sharingan. The world swam for a moment before snapping into clear focus; and there was Tajima in front of him, definitely not a genjutsu, raising his arm to strike –

Izuna ripped his sword out of its sheath and brought it up to block just in time. The force of impact jarred his shoulder; his father had not pulled that blow, which meant Izuna had barely managed to avoid being sliced in half. What was going on? His father’s face, not even a sword’s length in front of him, was tight with anger. He was bearing his weight down on their crossed blades, slowly forcing Izuna’s arm down. Panic was beginning to well up in Izuna’s chest. Clumsily he dropped his arm and dodged to the left, letting Tajima’s weight fall past him, and jumped back, wanting to put some space between them; but Tajima read his motion and pressed forwards again, rearing back for a two-handed strike. Izuna dodged again, concentrating on keeping his Sharingan focused on the path of the sword. He didn’t like his odds of blocking.

“Stand your ground, damn you!” Tajima roared. Izuna slid past his blade as it sliced crossways towards him and raised his sword; as long as he kept moving, he could deflect his father’s strikes away from him. He turned away one strike, two, three, and then his father twisted his sword at the end of the stroke and slashed across his cheekbone. It was barely a scratch, but it made Izuna falter, and in that moment his father stepped close, grabbed him by the strap of his armour, and slammed the hilt of his blade into Izuna’s injured shoulder with a sickening crunch. Izuna cried out, his vision going grey with pain, and would have fallen if not for the grip his father had on him. As his Sharingan sputtered and went out, he watched his father raise his sword a second time, and braced himself for the blow –

A hand shot out and grabbed Tajima’s wrist, stopping his swing. Madara, eyes wide and bloodred, was suddenly standing at Izuna’s side, holding back their father’s sword. For one frozen moment the three of them stood locked together, Tajima gripping Izuna, Madara clutching Tajima’s arm. Then Tajima broke the spell, releasing his hold on Izuna’s armour and shaking his arm free. Finally he stepped back a pace, eyes trained warily on his eldest son.

“Madara,” he said, tone low and dangerous, “What are you doing?”

To Izuna’s surprise, Madara ignored him. Instead he turned his head to look at Izuna. “Are you alright?” he asked. Izuna nodded, and although his shoulder burned fiercely, managed to stay on his feet.

“Madara!” their father barked. “How many times have I told you not to interfere in your brother’s training?”

As Izuna watched, Madara’s eyes flicked from the cut on Izuna’s face to their father, who was holding his sword out to the side, drops of Izuna’s blood sliding from the blade onto the snow. He slid one foot forward and turned slightly, subtly positioning himself between his father and his brother.

“Training?” he finally replied. “Father, can’t you see that Izuna is injured? What kind of training is he supposed to be doing in this condition?” Perhaps unconsciously, he was holding one hand a little behind him, as if trying to keep Izuna back.

Red eyes swept Madara up and down, as if Tajima was assessing the threat. When he spoke, his voice was low and threatening. “You understand how the Sharingan evolves, don’t you? Izuna’s is still too weak. If I don’t do this, he will remain weak forever.” Tajima brought his sword up, the early morning sun flashing on the blade as it moved. “Now stand aside.”

“No,” replied Madara.

Izuna inhaled a sharp breath in surprise; Tajima’s eyes widened with shock. Their father was not a man to be disobeyed, and yet here was Madara, making no move to get out of Tajima’s way. “Madara!” he snapped, his voice lashing like a whip, “I order you as your clan head to move aside, now!”

Instead, Madara shifted his stance to plant himself even more firmly in front of his brother. Izuna thought he saw his own fear echoed in the way Madara flexed his hand as he moved, and expected him to try to reason with Tajima; but instead he only said, voice quivering slightly, “I won’t allow you to hurt Izuna.”

The expression on Tajima’s face twisted into something like a sneer, and in that moment Izuna saw what was about to happen as clearly as his Sharingan could determine the target of a shuriken. Though Madara had never disobeyed him before, Tajima seemed to always suspect him of trying to undermine his power. “You defy my orders?” he was saying, lips curling above bared teeth, “You think to challenge _me_? You’re a fool, boy. I always knew this day would come, ever since I caught you sneaking off with that Senju when you were a child. You’re treacherous down to your bones, aren’t you? And you want my position, is that it? You think to challenge me?” He was rambling, his breath making clouds of steam in the frozen air. “Let’s see if you’re truly prepared to do so, then.” And with that, he swung his sword high and brought it down in a murderous arc towards his unarmed son.

The swing was angry and poorly aimed; Madara could easily have dodged, but he didn’t change his position; instead, he reached up and caught the blade of the sword in one gloved hand. He moved his arm across his body so as to direct the brunt of the blow away from him and prevent his hand from being sliced off, but even so the blade bit deep into his palm. For a split second it seemed Tajima was frozen with surprise, and in that moment Madara stepped forwards, grasped the hilt of the sword with his other hand, and, pivoting his body, ripped the weapon out of Tajima’s hands. The sword went flying; in the same motion Madara struck out with his right foot; and now it was Tajima who had to jump to avoid him, leaping backwards to get out of range. Madara shifted into a fighting stance, watching for the next attack. “Izuna,” he said, not looking back, “get out of here.”

_No!_ thought Izuna fiercely, he couldn’t leave his brother now! But even as he drew breath to say so, his eye was drawn by the sight of blooding running down Madara’s arm, out of his clenched fist. He hadn’t dodged that sword strike – he’d taken that blow to protect Izuna. Would Izuna really be a help to him like this? “Nii-san,” Izuna whispered, “I –“

“Run!” yelled Madara, his voice cracking. In front of him, Tajima was beginning the signs for the fireball jutsu. Izuna ran.

The lake was behind him, and the steep cliff to one side – no cover to be had. Izuna ran onto the lake, careful to keep his balance on the floating chunks of broken ice, and threw himself at the base of the cliff even as flames roared up its side. The fire exploded upwards, setting several nearby treetops ablaze; Madara must have countered the fireball with one of his own, forcing the conflagration up.

(Somewhere to the south, Hashirama would look up from leading his wounded clan to safety just in time to see a burst of flame on the horizon, and wonder, fleetingly, if Madara was alright.)

As the fire began to fade, Izuna took stock of the situation. He might be injured and exhausted of chakra, but there was no way he was leaving his brother to fight against their father alone; he just had to figure out a way to help that wouldn’t force Madara to protect him. Tilting his head up, Izuna considered the cliff face in front of him. The rock was slick with ice from Tobirama’s water jutsu, and at the top, a ring of icicles like huge teeth had formed around the edge. The cliff should give him a good vantage point, or at least keep him out of the way of the battle. Mindful of his injured arm, Izuna began to climb one-handed, using his chakra to keep his grip on the slippery rocks. The sound of metal clashing on metal followed him up the rockface, echoing loudly against the side of the cliff.

Mindful of the icicles, Izuna crested the top of the cliff and slid along the icy ground, keeping his body low. In the direction he’d just come from was the lake; to his right the ground dipped again, towards the spot where he’d clashed with Hashirama. Peering over the edge, Izuna saw his father and brother there, locked in battle. It was clear both combatants were exhausted from the fight with the Senju: neither of them were trying for any serious jutsu now, and their kunai strikes were sloppy and slow compared to the lighting-fast taijutsu they normally wielded. But even from this distance, Izuna could see that both Madara and Tajima were still using their Sharingan, and there was serious force behind their blows. The chances that this clash wouldn’t end in bloodshed seemed slim. Unless Izuna, somehow with his dwindling chakra, could find a way to incapacitate Tajima, or at least slow him down…

The ice bit cold into Izuna’s palms, and an idea began to take shape in his mind. Below him, Tajima was forcing his son backwards away from the cliff, attacking relentlessly as Madara struggled to keep his footing. He tried for a swipe with his kunai, but too slow: Tajima shot out his hand and seized Madara by the neck. The kunai in Madara’s hand went skittering across the ice; panicking, Madara grabbed his father’s arm with both hands and struck out with his legs, hitting Tajima hard in the chest. Tajima stumbled back as Madara fell, but gave his son no chance to recover, recovering with a downwards thrust of his kunai – but Madara was ready for him. Twisting to the side, Madara hurled himself upwards off the ground and slammed his shoulder into Tajima’s stomach. Caught off-balance in the midst of his swing, Tajima was thrown backwards by the force of the blow and hit the base of the cliff. There it was: the opening Izuna needed.

He had scant seconds to put his plan in motion; forcing the numb fingers of his left hand to form the seals, Izuna channeled the last of his waning chakra into a fireball jutsu. He inhaled deeply, re-checked the position of his father and brother below him, took aim, and breathed flame – not at the combatants below, but at the icicles under his knees. His chakra control was flawless: his flame was intense and perfectly concentrated. It took less than a second to melt the base of the icicles just enough before their own weight sent them crashing down.

Madara leapt free of the plummeting ice; Tajima, still struggling to rise at the base of the cliff, wasn’t so fortunate. Thanks to Tobirama’s jutsu and the freezing morning, there was enough ice falling from the cliff to bury him completely. As the sound of rumbling ice began to fade, Izuna locked eyes with his brother below. That ice surely wasn’t enough to kill Tajima, but would it be enough to stop him? Madara had his kunai at the ready, but still he hesitated. For a moment, the morning was still, as if the world was holding its breath.

An explosion rocked the cliffside, scattering ice in all directions and sending Madara sprawling. There at the center of the explosion was Tajima, standing in the midst of the broken ice and looking up at Izuna with cold anger in his eyes. His Sharingan churned furiously; Izuna, looking down at him, found his limbs suddenly frozen. A basic trick of the Sharingan, one Izuna had used himself many times – he could break it, if only he could just activate his own Sharingan, but even as he struggled, Tajima was forming a new set of handsigns, aiming for Izuna, inhaling –

“ _NO!”_ Madara screamed, tackling his father by the waist as Tajima activated his jutsu, fireballs bursting crazily up the side of the cliff. Izuna, suddenly able to move, ducked behind the edge of the cliffside. When he looked back, Madara was on the ground, Tajima pinning him with one arm. Izuna, helpless at the top of the cliff, drew a kunai, but the struggling figures on the ground were so locked together he doubted his aim. With one final effort, Izuna _pushed_ the dregs of his chakra into his eyes and at last felt his Sharingan activate –

Tajima drew back his arm to strike, aiming his kunai for a killing blow –

Izuna threw his own kunai, his Sharingan guiding his aim, and watched it sink into Tajima’s shoulder –

Tajima faltered for just a moment, his motion momentarily thrown off –

And Madara drove his own kunai to the handle in Tajima’s throat.

The kunai in Tajima's hand hit the ground with a quiet thud. Tajima made no sound as he died, a claw-like hand still reaching in one last futile attempt for his son below him. With the burning clarity of the Sharingan Izuna saw Tajima's features twisted into a mask of fury, saw blood running down Madara's arm in a thick red stream - then, abruptly, everything was red. Izuna’s eyes burned in his skull; he clasped his hands to his face as his vision swam, the scene below him seeming to shift into somehow sharper focus even as the world around him stretched and contorted. Everything was too hot – it was like the first awakening of his Sharingan, but a thousand times worse, burning needles stabbing through his eye sockets. Through cage of his fingers, Izuna saw Madara on the ground below him had managed to roll out from underneath the corpse of their father and was retching into the snow, one hand clutching his head. If Izuna could just get to him, they could figure out what was happening – everything would be alright.

The drop facing him wasn’t terribly high – nothing to a ninja, ordinarily – but at the moment Izuna doubted he could even stand, let alone jump. Absurdly, he thought of how as a child he’d used to climb trees just to leap from the little height, knowing his brother would catch him. Through the red haze obscuring his vision, Izuna crawled to the edge of the cliff and clumsily levered himself over the edge, dropping to the ground with a hollow crackle of broken ice. The landing jarred his wounded shoulder painfully as he rolled to lessen the impact. But then his brother was there, brushing the hair out of Izuna’s face, saying something Izuna couldn’t hear over the pounding in his skull. Madara’s eyes, staring worriedly into Izuna’s face, bore a strange pattern.

“Turn it off,” Madara was saying, Izuna suddenly realized. “Your Sharingan – something’s wrong. Turn it off!” Izuna closed his eyes. As he willed this strange new Sharingan to go away, he felt his brother pull him close and rest his chin on Izuna’s head, just like he used to do when they were little and Izuna would wake him up in the night complaining of bad dreams. Izuna leaned into his brother’s shoulder and took a deep, shuddering breath. It’s over, he thought, and at last felt the throbbing in his eyes begin to recede. He had survived, and his brother was alright, and his father…if Izuna felt a bit of wetness trickle out from underneath his closed eyelids, it was only due to his Sharingan, nothing more.

“I’m sorry, Izuna,” came a whisper from above him. Izuna lifted his head. Madara was still holding onto him, his eyes looking normal now, although bloodshot. He was speaking in a choked voice: “I’m so sorry I didn’t come to protect you sooner.”

“No, Nii-san, it’s my fault. I should’ve – if I’d been stronger – none of this would have happened.”

“NO!” said Madara, forcefully. “It’s not your fault, Izuna. Tajima was supposed to protect you – he was supposed to protect the clan.” He pulled back a little to peer into Izuna’s face, but kept his hands resting on his brother’s shoulders. “It’s his fault. We didn’t have any choice,” he said. “The clan will understand.”

Steeling himself, Izuna looked away from his brother and towards the spreading pool of red that marked their father’s corpse. “Nii-san,” he said, “we can’t tell anyone what happened here today.”

“What?” Madara said, startled. “We can’t exactly keep it to ourselves, can we? I mean, he’s the clan leader.”

“He _was_ the clan leader,” Izuna corrected. “ _You_ are clan leader now.” Madara might seem stoic, even cold, to others in the clan, but Izuna knew him well enough to understand – deep down he was idealistic. Despite the rumours, he was deeply loyal to the clan; he’d make an excellent leader, given the opportunity. But in this situation, he might not think realistically. Lucky, then, that he had Izuna to do so for him. “If you tell everyone what really happened, people will think you killed Tajima for the leadership position. It doesn’t matter what we both say – they know you’re Tajima’s heir, somebody eventually will suspect you.” He could see that Madara was listening, and pressed on: “We can’t afford anybody questioning your leadership right now, when the clan’s already struggling enough as it is.”

 “What should we tell them, then?” Madara asked, his gesture taking in the body of their father as well as their own injuries. Izuna considered.

“We’ll tell them that Tajima took me back to the battlefield to find out what happened.” This much at least was true. The remainder of the story was already taking shape, smooth and clear as any mission report. “Then we found that the Senju had left a trap for us: those who survived the battle attacked us in vengeance for their fallen kin. You sensed that something was wrong, and arrived in time to turn back the attackers, but too late to save our father.”

“And what about…” Madara waved a hand in front of his face, indicating his eyes.

Izuna really didn’t want to think about that right now. Sooner or later, he’d have to use his Sharingan again, and then he’d find out what changes had taken place in his eyes; but for the moment, he was keeping his Sharingan safely turned off. “Ah…we’ll think of that when it comes up,” he said, giving his brother a shaky smile. Madara no doubt saw through his false confidence entirely, but he gave him a small smile in return.

 “We should be getting back, then,” said Madara. “Your injuries need treating. I’ll come back for…for Tajima’s body later.”

“You’re going to leave him here?” Izuna asked, startled. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised – they had killed him, after all, and that was surely worse than leaving his body contorted in the snow. But then…he had been their father.

Madara’s eyes darted from his father to his brother. “I can’t carry you both,” he said by way of explanation.

“It’s okay, I can walk,” Izuna assured him, despite feeling not at all certain that this was true. He wouldn’t let Madara walk alone into the Uchiha camp carrying the body of the former clan leader; his brother needed his support now, and so he would be strong. Carefully, with Madara’s help, he managed to get to his feet. He stayed standing and watched as Madara retrieved the body of their father and, with practiced motions, slung it onto his back. Carrying his grisly burden, he returned to his brother’s side and let Izuna rest a hand on his shoulder.

Slowly, side by side, the brothers made their way back home to their clan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends convinced me to watch Naruto for the first time last year. I thought it was a funky ninja show & wasn't prepared for the amount of angst I'd be saddled with for the next several months - sibling stories in particular tend to get me, & so I absolutely can't deal with what happened to Izuna. And the whole Itachi and Sasuke thing??? I still haven't recovered.
> 
> There's only so much pestering my little sister can put up with, so I wrote this fanfic instead. Predictably it only made me more angsty (in the canon of this fic, Izuna absolutely Does Not Die!! Just for the record). I'm a bit embarrassed about it, but I'm glad I wrote it, if only because of the new appreciation I've gained for fanfic writers. You guys are all fantastic and persistent and dedicated, and I am so impressed with you.


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